


Three Months

by realorunreal



Category: Casualty (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 17:55:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20934329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realorunreal/pseuds/realorunreal
Summary: Dylan and David have been secretly dating for a few months, and are living in a state of domestic bliss. An accident threatens to expose their secret to their colleagues, and may just prompt the two men to acknowledge just how deep their feelings for each other actually are.





	Three Months

Dylan felt the mattress shift around him. Eyes still closed, he noted the arm that was snaking its way around his waist, and the leg that was now hooked over his own. He adored mornings like this: fresh, unshaven stubble scratching lightly against his shoulder; deep, rhythmic breathing tickling his ear. A feeling of security, love and warmth that he had never felt before. Not even with Sam. Yes, he’d loved her deeply – deeply enough to marry her – but this was different. Life with Sam was fast, unpredictable, torrid. Age and countless therapy sessions had taught him that their marriage was profoundly toxic. They had walked the same fine line between love and hate that he and his father had done when he was just a child, albeit that relationship was platonic. When their relationship was good, it was incredible, but when cracks started to show, they tore each other apart. But their difficult history didn’t make losing her any easier.

But David understood. He understood Dylan’s grief when she died, knowing all too well that a part of him would always love her. He understood his OCD and alcoholism, because he, too, had struggled. And on the rare occasions that Dylan opened up about his father and his childhood, David – steadfastly loyal and compassionate in his own, silent way - was there, understanding. 

Dylan opened his eyes slowly, allowing them to adjust to the light seeping in from the houseboat’s bedroom window. Shifting slightly, he rolled over to face his lover – taking in his broad chest and tracing around his tattoos with his fingertips. 

In response, David let out a low moan; his muscles stretching out under Dylan’s touch. 

“Morning, gorgeous,” David hummed groggily, pulling Dylan close, “and happy three-month anniversary”. 

Dylan snorted, pulling back to look at a David’s grinning face. “For god’s sake, we’re not love-struck teenagers, David!” he asserted, feigning his trademark grumpiness for only a brief second before breaking out in a smile. 

“Hey,” David began softly, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head a little. “Who can blame me for wanting to celebrate every anniversary, no matter how small, that I get to spend in bed with you?”

Although he would never admit it, Dylan adored this side of David. Brazen, confident, seductive. Still quintessentially David, but so far from the timid, anxious man who fumbled his way through the first shift they ever worked together. 

“Do shut up. My head won’t fit through the ED doors at this rate. C’mere…”, Dylan laughed softly, pulling David into a fleeting kiss. All too soon, he pulled away, resting his forehead against David’s. “Talking about the ED, I’d better get ready for work.”

David groaned as Dylan pulled away, immediately missing his warmth, his scent, his touch…all of him. He allowed his head to fall back against his pillow, but his eyes remained fixed on Dylan, who was now perched on the edge of the bed. 

“You’re really going to piss off to work and leave me here, all hot and bothered?’, he whined, watching as his fully-naked boyfriend stood up, grabbing a towel off the rail as he shuffled towards the shower. 

“Hmm, well…”, Dylan began, drawing out the last word with a cheeky smirk. “You could always join me?”

Dylan didn’t need to wait long for an answer. Turning the shower dial, he heard the rustling of bed sheets and the sound of David’s feet against the wooden floor. Today was already off to a good start.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dylan had been on shift for almost two hours when, in-between consultations, he’d slipped out of the ED in the hope of catching a few moments alone with David before he started work. Reaching the staff room, Dylan poked his head through the door, a hint of a smile on his face at the thought of seeing his boyfriend. His face fell when he realised the room was empty.

Dylan glanced up at the clock. 9:47am. David’s shift started in just over ten minutes, so where the hell was he? David – ever-punctual and fastidious by nature – was a creature of habit, following a specific pre-shift routine that Dylan had committed to memory over their years as colleagues. Normally, he’d arrive obscenely early, opting to spend the half-hour before his shift in the staff room with a newspaper and a piping hot mug of Earl Grey tea. 

Dylan signed in frustration, turning on his heel and stepping out into the corridor… straight into the path of Dr Ethan Hardy. 

“Ah, Dr Keogh!” the young consultant began, stopping just short of a head-on collision with his colleague. 

“We’ve got multiple RTC casualties en route. Mrs Beauchamp is briefing the team in a few minutes, so you’d better move your arse if you don’t want to get on her bad side.” Ethan quipped lightly, continuing along the corridor towards the ED with Dylan following suit.

“I’m never on her good side.” Dylan deadpanned, earning him a rakish grin from the other man.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Now that everyone who should be here... is here, I’ll begin.” Connie stated, eyes boring into Ethan and Dylan, who had been the last to arrive.

Dylan’s eyes darted around room in search of David, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“David, “Dylan interrupted curtly, but corrected himself quickly, “Erh, I - Nurse Hide. He isn’t here, I mean.” His colleagues murmured in agreement.

He looked at Connie expectantly, but she couldn’t look him in the eye. 

“I…am aware. I’ll come to that.” 

Those words unsettled Dylan, but it was Connie’s tone and body language – the way her voice waivered, hands clutching nervously at her blouse – that sent his brain into panic mode. He’d normally have missed those sorts of cues, but in that moment, they were blatant. He stood, frozen in place, as she continued.

“As some of you know, we have multiple incoming casualties – four, in fact – who were involved in an RTC between a vehicle and a cyclist. I must forewarn you all that…”, she paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, “…that the cyclist was – is – Nurse Hide, who was on his way to work when he was struck. The paramedics have advised that he is in a serious but stable condition, though we will, of course, know more when he arrives. I understand that this will be difficult for you all, so if any of you wish to step out, now would be the time to do so. Otherwise, we all need to be on our game.” Connie continued on, assigning specific roles to each of the staff members on shift.

However, Dylan was unresponsive. Frozen in place, all he could hear was the rushing of blood around his body. His vision blurred, chest tightening more with each agonising second that passed. Panic consumed him, tearing away his ability to think logically – to function not only as a doctor but as a human.

“Dr Keogh! Dr Keogh – Dylan!” 

Dylan’s head snapped up, his eyes desperately trying to find a focal point. He vaguely registered that Charlie was now stood in front of him, with one firm hand on his shoulder.

“Dylan, you’re needed. David’s being brought in now.” Charlie’s voice was calm and assertive, and Dylan found himself clinging to his every word in an effort to remain grounded and present. 

At that moment, the ED doors flew open and, in a flurry of activity, David was wheeled into the room. Dylan suppressed the urge to vomit.

“Will cubicle 4 do, Mrs Beauchamp?” Iain asked, steering David’s gurney towards the cubicles.

Connie hesitated for a second, glancing over at Dylan. “No, put him in 2”, she asserted. She could see that Dylan was distraught. She knew of his past with cubicle 4. The deaths, his OCD, his breakdown. It was already an emotionally-charged situation – one that she didn’t want to inadvertently make worse.

Dylan took a shaky breath as he watched the paramedics wheel David into the cubicle and move him over to the bed. He forced his feet to move, as if he were a tiny child taking his first steps. One foot in front of the other. He could do this. 

“It’s alright David, you’re fine, mate.” He heard Iain say as the staff worked to examine the distressed man before them. Now standing at the foot of the bed, Dylan forced himself to listen to Ruby as she listed off David’s medical details and obvious injuries.

“This is David Hide, he’s 49 years old and was thrown from his bicycle after being struck by a car travelling at approximately 30mph,” she began, “he’s disorientated and confused, likely from a moderate to severe concussion sustained from hitting his head. His helmet is cracked, indicating that the blow was severe so there may be a more serious, underlying issue. He has a fractured collarbone, multiple facial fractures, three fractured ribs and a compound fracture to his left tibia. His breathing is laboured, which may suggest a pneumothorax and his stomach is slightly distended and tender, which may be a sign of internal damage caused by the bike’s handlebars.”

Ruby began to list the medication that they had administered at the scene and en route, but was cut off by David.

“Dylan…” He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut, hands gripping the rails of the bed so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “Dylan”.

In an instant, Dylan’s world stopped spinning. His senses returning; world slowing to a crawl. He was now all too aware of the sound of the scissors tearing their way through David’s blood-soaked jeans. 

Blood. It poured from the gaping hole in David’s shin, stopped only by a wad of medical gauze. Its thick, metallic scent so pungent that it caught in the back of Dylan’s throat. He couldn’t take it any more. The incessant beeping, the chaos, the blood, David calling out for him. He couldn’t save Sam or Cal; couldn’t help Ciara. He was the common denominator; a bad omen. And now David was fighting for his life. 

Dylan’s mind raced. This was his fault. His fault for thinking he could be happy after Sam, after Ciara. His fault for allowing himself to feel again, to love again. He was a fool. He’d been so lost in blissful domesticity that he’d forgotten that he destroyed everything he touched. That he was a broken, dysfunctional human that seemed to incite tragedy wherever he went. He couldn’t lose David. He couldn’t lose David. He couldn’t lose David. 

He was going to vomit. 

Dylan fled from the room, gagging into his hand as acerbic bile forced its way up his oesophagus. He barely made it to the staff bathroom sink before retching violently; his stomach contents spilling out over the white porcelain.

He hovered over the sink, pressing the heels of his hands against the worktop so forcefully that his wrists ached. His nausea dissipated, only to be replaced by rage. He snapped his head up, locking eyes with his reflection on the mirror. Reaching up, he snatched a handful of paper towels out of the dispenser with such force that the cheap, plastic structure rattled on its fixings, before wiping away the sweat that had gathered on his forehead and the residual strings of vomit on his lips and chin. 

He’d abandoned David; let his emotions and fears take precedence over those of the person he loved the most. The one person who had stood by him, time and time again, when he’d hit rock bottom. He didn’t deserve David. He’d failed David. 

The cubicle door cracked against the wall; the sound echoing throughout the bathroom and out into the corridor. Moaning out in pain, Dylan doubled over, tucking his injured hand against his torso reflexively. His legs gave out from under him, chest heaving as he began to sob. Not out of physical pain, but from fear and rage and panic. He couldn’t lose David.

Footsteps. “Shit”, Dylan thought, realising all-too-late that someone was coming. He stood up shakily, only just managing to wipe his eyes with his good hand before the bathroom door opened, revealing a concerned Charlie Fairhead.

“Dylan…”, Charlie gasped, staring at the dishevelled, bloody man hunched over in front of him. “What the hell happened? Your hand…”, he began, but Dylan cut him off.

“That should be fairly obvious.” Dylan spat, but his voice lacked its usual caustic edge. 

“You must’ve hit that door hard”, Charlie began softly, “I’m surprised its still on its hinges given the sound it made.” Dylan didn’t respond. 

“They’ve taken David for a full-body CT. He’ll likely go straight to the OR from there. He’s in good hands, Dylan.”

Charlie watched as Dylan’s face contorted, brows knitting together, eyes squeezed shut. His mouth trying to form words that just wouldn’t come out. 

“Come on, I’ll treat your hand,” Charlie said, turning towards the door. Suddenly, Dylan spoke.

“He called out for me.”

The words hung in the air. 

“He called out for me, but I left him.”


End file.
